The Leo, His 'Itch' and Their Wardrobe
by Cardinal Robbins
Summary: Sarah noticed John was indeed in ‘painting clothes,’ wearing an old tshirt with black jeans, the right rear pocket worn along the top barely holding his wallet. SVU AU Rated M for adult situations. You've been warned! LOL


"The Leo, His Itch and Their Wardrobe"

By Cardinal Robbins

Disclaimer: John Munch isn't mine, but I bet he'd like to be. Zelman is mine, but her heart belongs to that tall, thin, handsome detective she's crazy about. My apologies to C.S. Lewis for punning such a well-known title. (John Munch's 'sign' is Leo.)

John Munch used his keys to quietly let himself into Sarah Zelman's place, which had metamorphosed from apartment to condominium over the past forty-five days. Her mortgage was considerably less than rent had been, which called for a celebration.

To John, that meant a better bottle of champagne than they usually shared, but to Sarah it meant launching a wide variety of small 'do it yourself' projects. He'd graciously allowed her to rope him into assisting with such tasks, because the benefits were nothing less than memorable.

He walked into the bedroom, amused her clothing and some of his – still on hangers – was draped across the bed, momentarily displaced. The room smelled faintly of wood, coupled with the slight odor of polyurethane. A table fan was running, blowing air into the large wardrobe he and Zelman had refinished to look considerably older than its thirty years. The art deco flourishes stood out with a slight gleam, faux maple shimmering beautifully under the matte clear coat.

"I thought you were going to wait for me to help you," John said, a bit perplexed. He could wrangle a brush as good as anyone, often with much more skill.

"No worries…" she replied. "I had the urge to get going on the top-coat, then before I knew it, it was done." Sarah noticed he was indeed in 'painting clothes,' wearing an old t-shirt with black jeans, the right rear pocket worn along the top barely holding his wallet. His beat-up athletic shoes bore witness to several years of wear and tear, so well-worn they'd have to be tossed soon. She stood there with a sly grin on her face, as he pulled off his jacket and draped it on the bed. "The poly should be dry on this by now."

"Let me check," he replied, first inspecting it by sight before running his hand over the shelves and clothing rod. "Bone dry. It looks good, too." He playfully pulled downward on the rod, checking its strength. "You don't look half-bad yourself, you know." John got a cheap thrill each time he saw her in ripped denim, her almost threadbare gray FBI tee, and bare feet. He grinned, an idea suddenly coming to mind. As he ducked his head, he motioned toward the wardrobe, chuckling. It took only seconds for Sarah to follow his lead, closing the door behind them.

"Use handcuffs on that clothing rod and you're a dead man," she chided, unsure of whether or not he had his 'bracelets' with him. She slipped her hand into the waistband of his jeans, the tell-tale bulge of a holster evidence he was armed. "Why don't you take off your ordnance and get comfy?" she teased, as he pulled off his belt.

"Comfortable? In here?" He reached up to a shelf, placing his Glock as far back as possible, along with his belt. "Maybe I could manage, if I didn't have this sudden itch," he admitted, taking the moment to slip out of his shoes.

"Where?" she asked, ready to help despite her short fingernails.

"My right shoulder blade," he replied, carefully turning so she could scratch for him. "There…just another reason why I love you." He turned toward her again as his pulse jumped, his arms momentarily around her waist. "You always know how to scratch my itch, no matter where or when."

His quip was all it took. Before they could so much as share a kiss, both succumbed to the rush of undressing each other. Sarah stripped off his shirt as he unzipped her jeans, both of them wearing nothing in virtually no time at all. Before he placed it on the shelf beside his gun, John had pulled protection from his wallet, as Sarah took it from him and ripped it open with her teeth.

They embraced, hot from both the unseasonably summer-like weather and their own libidinous intentions. Slightly high from the residual fumes of refinishing materials, they kissed repeatedly, a bit giddy in the enclosed space. Small spaces normally made Zelman edgy, her claustrophobia kicking in when she was alone, but with Munch there it was a promise of pleasure. He loved the challenge of carnal logistics in a space barely large enough for one.

Fortunately, when it came to sexual pursuits, they both shared the same predilections. They'd traded a sideward glance less than two weeks before, wriggling enthusiastically into the space on the floor of the closet, pushing shoe racks and plastic storage bins out of the way in their haste. He had pulled the sliding door closed, hearing her sharp intake of air; once he calmed her, she was as enamored of the small space and its potential.

Now, they held on to each other, making love in the varnish-scented darkness, the only light evident through a thin ribbon under the double doors. They tightly embraced, kissing deeply over and over, as both relished the joy their vertical positioning afforded. Suddenly, he slightly repositioned her, both of them inadvertently bruised from abruptly hitting the clothing rod, but it didn't vary their pleasure in the slightest.

Had anyone been watching, they would have though the large wardrobe possessed as sounds of their entanglement echoed in the room. Finally, the muffled sounds of release and happiness ensued, both of them groggy as they pushed against the doors.

Sarah couldn't see John's perplexed expression as the doors didn't budge, but she could tell they were trapped – even in the near-total darkness.

"So help me, if I have to start yelling, "Help!" we'll never hear the end of this," she said, trying not to panic. "Do something!"

"Calm down…stay calm," he asserted, "and I'll get us out of here." How, he wasn't immediately sure, but he knew he'd think of something. Anything was better than a neighbor overhearing, then calling the FDNY to rescue them from their bliss. "If you faint, I won't be happy," he warned her, relatively sure she wouldn't pass out on him. Or so he hoped.

"There's no room for me to pass out in here," she quipped. "Besides, I'm not a fainter and you know it." She ran her finger along the crack between the doors, wondering if the polyurethane was why they were stuck inside.

"I've got an idea," John said, seeing the light at the bottom of the doors. "I'll give the doors a hard smack at the top, while you do the same down below. On three."

"Got it," Sarah said, crouching as much as she could, finally in position. "Try not to kick me, okay?" She felt like she was sitting on his feet.

"Ready? One…two…two and a half…" A laugh escaped him, as he realized the absurdity of their predicament.

"John!"

"Three!" He heard the door literally pop open as they hit the top and bottom simultaneously. They almost tumbled out, Sarah escaping first as John tried not to trip over her. Together, gasping for clean air, both nearly collapsed on the carpeted bedroom floor. "We're out. It's a miracle."

"The real 'miracle' is that we didn't break anything," she retorted.

"Our bones or the wardrobe?" It loomed large over them, as if to have the last laugh.

"Both," she decided. "But damn, that was fun!" She finally stopped panting, able to think again at last. "You know what this means, right?"

He reached over, interlacing his fingers in hers. "It means we should take on a 'do it yourself' project every weekend." John looked up at the ceiling, a grin on his face. "That is, if we have the energy. I think I have the next task in mind already."

"Really? Don't tell me, let me guess," she insisted. "Refinishing the underside of the dining room table?" They both loved that table, especially the space below it.

He shook his head, a lazy smile still on his face. "No, not that… I was thinking of the bathroom."

"The shower? I'm not too keen on retiling in there."

"Think lower down," he urged her.

"When it's you, I'm always thinking 'lower down,' sweetheart…you know that."

His musical laugh filled the room. "Time to update the linoleum – the bathroom floor."

She considered it, almost immediately in favor of a new look. "I'm game, but only if you help."

"Don't worry, babe. I'm more than willing to put in the 'sweat equity,' if you are."

She giggled, thinking of the implications each time he came back in his paint clothes. "'Sweat equity, huh? Something tells me we won't get the new floor down without a little 'extra effort.'"

"You know how it is with these things," he said brightly. "The more you put into it, the more you get out of it." He'd already gotten more than he bargained for with the wardrobe, which had been a satisfying project indeed.


End file.
